


Froot

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Birthday, Established Relationship, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Public Sex, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 18:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2631050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Spock go to a restaurant on Jim’s birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Froot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plyushka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plyushka/gifts).



> A/N: Fic for superplyushka’s “K/S drabble [...] feeding each other by hand in public” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). The title is indeed from Marina and the Diamonds. Thanks for the kind words, super! Special thanks to my dear abbeyjewel for betaing~
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s dark by the time they make it to the restaurant, after about half an hour of milling about the San Francisco streets, discussing and rejecting every other place they’ve seen. It Jim’s decision, he knows, but he has one of those specific cravings he can’t put his finger on, and then they walk past just the right place, and he stops so abruptly that for once, Spock isn’t perfectly in tandem. Spock only gets one step away before their arms pull taut, fingers linked, Jim’s hand tugging him back. Spock was self-conscious when they left this afternoon, touching so intimately in public, but they’ve been out too long and Jim can feel that his tension’s eased. He still eyes the street billboard with the same usual frown before deciding, “This establishment is unlikely to provide a nutritious meal.”

Jim snorts, grinning fondly and already dragging Spock towards the glass doors. “You sound like Bones. What were you saying this morning about respecting human customs—that it’s _my_ day and you’d concede to my wishes?” Spock doesn’t answer, and Jim doesn’t need to look back to know he’s tight-lipped. He follows Jim up to the front desk with the air of being on a distasteful mission his captain’s ordered him to serve on. A smiling Andorian in a pinstripe vest looks up from her register screen and nods a greeting.

“Table for two?” Her voice has the unmistakable accent of an alien determined to learn the language without a UT. Jim, peering past her and into the dimly lit restaurant, nods. She punches a few keys on her terminal in response, but the screen’s turned away, so Jim waits for her assessment. “Ah, I’m afraid we’re rather booked up this evening—oh! But we have one table in the back. The service might be a little slow; is that alright?”

“Sure.” The din of the dining room is already permeating the air: a good night indeed. The orange lanterns hanging from the ceiling seem to pulsate a warm, friendly glow, and every table Jim looks at is full to the brim. As he peers about, a human waitress in the same uniform as the Andorian at the front desk pops out from around the corner, strolling up to them.

The computer must’ve sent her the alert, because she doesn’t even bother to check with the receptionist before telling them, “Follow me, please.” Jim squeezes Spock’s hand once for support and heads off after the waitress, plunging into the busy dining room and weaving around wooden tables. He can feel the slight unease in Spock’s fingers over the boisterous atmosphere—too many emotions. But their table is tucked right into a corner, so far to the back that it’s a good two notches darker than the rest of the restaurant. It’s right alongside a giant pot of Endosian orchids. The waitress ushers them to sit down and hands them two PADDs to order with. “I’ll be back in a moment.” And she flitters off before either of them can respond. 

Spock only gives the menu a peripheral sweep before one eyebrow’s raised, and Jim teases, “I don’t think they have salad, dear.”

Indeed, the menu is an assortment of fruits, pastries, balled ice cream, and foreign treats. Jim only gives that a cursory run-through, ordering mostly fruits to appease his organic boyfriend. It’s the sauce that gives him pause; he assumed the chocolate fondue would be an automatic addition, but the list of different types of chocolate is almost as extensive as the rest of the menu. He’s halfway through, stuck between milk and Bolian tea flavours, when Spock announces, “Dark.”

“I think it’s supposed to be romantic lighting. It makes humans feel cozier.”

“I was referring to my chocolate preference.”

Jim glances over the top of his PADD. Spock’s already put his down on the table, and he’s now sitting rigidly in his chair, pulled right up to the brim of the little round table. Their chairs are cushioned with crimson seats, which blend in well with the rich wood of the floor and walls. Somehow, Spock fits in, even in his dark blue, v-necked sweater and tight jeans—with his pointed ears and greenish complexion, he almost reminds Jim of an elf. Jim’s faux-leather jacket, plain shirt and loose jeans probably look an odd match with all of Spock’s polish, but Jim imagines anyone who looks at them twice will know they must have a deep connection—how else could one get a logical Vulcan into a sentimental, superfluous sugar factory like this?

As Jim continues down the menu, Spock concedes, “I will, however, divert to your choice should you disagree.” Jim’s eyes stay on the menu, but his mouth is grinning. Sometimes, Spock makes the muscles in Jim’s face sore from all the fond smiling. At the end of the chocolate list, Jim adds his PADD to the tabletop, not bothering to check the drinks. As much as he loves the rare occasion where Spock will allow Jim to get him drunk, Jim knows he’s already put Spock through enough today.

“No, no. Far be it from me to keep you from your chocolate preference, Commander.” Jim folds his fingers together over the table while one foot slides forward to rest alongside Spock’s.

Spock’s face remains impassive, but Jim knows him well enough to recognize the warmth in his eyes.

“Have you decided?” the waitress suddenly asks, popping up out of nowhere. Jim startles, though Spock doesn’t react; he must’ve heard her coming. Jim was distracted with... other things. The waitress’ hands are folded across her wide midsection, no PADD in sight. Jim picks his back up, clueing in that he’s probably supposed to select them on there. The waitress gives him a little nod and turns to Spock to signal he do the same. “Can I get you started on drinks?”

Spock looks over at Jim. Jim gets the distinct impression that he’s offering to consume alcohol if Jim so wishes, (though it takes a large amount to actually effect Spock) but Jim benevolently decides for them, “Water will be fine.” Spock gives him an approving look, and Jim reaches over to collect Spock’s PADD. Clearly, Spock’s willing to follow his lead, so Jim punches in a variety of things with dark chocolate dip, tapping what he wants and letting them accumulate into a larger list. When he passes it to the waitress, she gives it a quick inspection.

Then she gives them a curt smile and disappears again, taking both PADDs with her. The exposed tabletop, though it’s maybe half a meter long, feels empty. Jim randomly smoothes his hands over it, aware of the movement catching Spock’s attention. Spock’s always had a thing for hands, and Jim’s always had a thing for being naughty. He has half a mind to order Spock to put his on the table too, rather than keep them so tightly in his lap, but Jim generally tries not to play captain off duty. He draws his boot along Spock’s instead, staring at Spock’s handsome face, until Spock says, “Perhaps we should file our personnel reports before our next mission.”

Jim sighs. As much as he loves his ship—what he sometimes thinks of as his and Spock’s child and family—this isn’t the time to talk shop.

Spock goes on, “We have considerably more time while we are stationed on Earth than we will aboard, especially when factoring in Mr. Scott’s recent upgrades which will require much of our attention in the initial days of our next assignment. If we were to begin the evaluations on Friday, for instance—”

“We can’t,” Jim says bluntly. Spock simply raises another slanted eyebrow, and Jim insists, “We’re going to be very busy on Friday.” His foot lifts off the ground, dragging along Spock’s leg. Spock’s eyes flicker down.

“I was not aware we had plans.”

“We have very important plans.” Jim’s foot draws up to Spock’s knee. It’s easy to trace the outline of Spock’s leg when the fabric’s so tightly molded to it, and Jim has a flash of regret; he should’ve chosen a restaurant with glass tables, so he could stare down at Spock’s lap while they waited. But then, he tells himself, Spock would never let him do this if it were visible.

Spock lets Jim rub along his outer thigh before finally swatting him away. “What plans?”

Jim lowers his voice to purr, “I plan to fuck you over the dining table.”

It has nothing to do with personnel reports, but Spock looks halfway between scolding Jim for clearly trying to avoid work and for being so inappropriate in such a public place. But Jim being inappropriate is nothing new. There’s a part of Spock, of course, that looks interested, a flare in his eyes and a slight flicker of heat through their Vulcan bond, but Spock doesn’t get to voice either feeling.

The waitress returns, her dark cheeks flushed and her eyes apologetic. “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience,” she chirps as soon as she’s in front of their table. “The kitchen says they’re out of tongs. I’m afraid if you want those, you’ll have to wait quite a while...”

If they want those. The statement rings in Jim’s ears, and he leans back in his seat to look around the plump waitress; he can only see half a dozen tables from where they are, but two of them are eating with their hands. It’s a messy, make-it-yourself sort of meal anyway, he supposes. And with the friendly atmosphere... Jim looks over at Spock, trying to ascertain if that would make Spock too uncomfortable or not.

Spock looks back at the waitress first and tells her, “We will do without.” She brightens considerably, nods in confirmation and takes off, while Jim gapes at his boyfriend, who’s gone so far as to eat popcorn with chopsticks in the past. With the waitress gone, Spock meets Jim’s eyes and quietly explains, “I will not deprive you of your meal of choice on your date of birth, t’hy’la.”

Jim blurts, “I love you too,” because it’s practically the same thing. Jim almost says that Spock didn’t have to do that, or that Jim truly appreciates it, but when Spock looks aimlessly aside, gaze falling to the flower pot, Jim decides to drop the subject until the meal comes. He returns to touching Spock’s feet with his and debating whether or not he should take his boots off to get a real feeling of Spock’s legs. Not that he hasn’t already got them memorized, but Jim finds he can never get enough of _Spock_.

After a moment of intense silence and Jim ogling the elegant curve of Spock’s exposed neck, he asks, “What were we talking about again?”

Without looking back, Spock replies, “You were forewarning me of what you wish to do to me on Friday.” Jim’s stomach does a little flip—Spock still gives him butterflies. From Spock, that’s as good as an invitation for dirty talk.

So Jim leans across the table and lowers his voice, practically hissing, “That’s right; I was going to bend you over the dining room table, drizzle syrup over your chest and lick it off, suck on your nipples for my morning milk, and drag my tongue right down to your—” As Spock’s breath hitches, his gaze determinedly elsewhere, Jim pauses. He can see their waitress over Spock’s shoulder, but she stops at another table, so he finishes a contrite, breathy, “Dick.”

Spock comments dryly, “I am going to be very sticky.”

Jim’s heart is going to beat right through his chest. “I’ll lick you clean; I promise. The only thing you’ll be left with is my scent, and you can even wash that away once I get you in the shower. You can’t really think I’d want to talk personnel reports when I could be pinning my favourite officer up against the tile wall, spreading his legs and—”

The waitress is out of the kitchen again, this time bee lining for them, arms carrying a large tray. Jim straightens up in his seat and is mildly proud of how little he’s actually blushing. He drops his hands from the table when the waitress reaches them, bending over to place the tray on the counter top. “Sorry the drinks are late,” she chirps, unloading the two martini glasses holding nothing but water. There’s a large bowl on the side that she drags to the center, where the glasses were, and she clicks a little button near the bottom of the bowl to snap it to life. The base instantly lights with a blue glow, lifting up to expose a hidden compartment. Another tap from the waitress and it bursts into a controlled flame, housed in by glass and licking over the bottom of the bowl. There are little plates holding fruit all around the bowl that she adjusts minutely before straightening and nodding her leave. Spock’s eyes fixate on the flame, and Jim has to wonder if Spock’s ever had fondue or not.

Setting fire to your food doesn’t seem particular Vulcan, but then, neither do lirpas. The mood returns as soon as she’s gone, but Jim doesn’t continue his verbal plans. Now he has a new way to entice his boyfriend, and besides, he’s hungry.

He plucks one grape out of a small bowl of them—a mixture of alien varieties, but Jim chooses a juicy-looking purple one that he’s sure is from Earth. It’s round and too fragile to grip by the top rather than the secure middle, and when he lifts it to the bowl of melted dark chocolate, his fingertips inevitably dip into the sauce with it. Jim assumes Spock won’t mind, and he twists the grape in the warm fondue. It’s just the right consistency, smooth and liquid but just thick enough to cling. They must’ve started it in the kitchen; the little flame beneath the bowl couldn’t have done this so quickly. Jim uses the grape to scoop out a large glob of chocolate sauce, then brings it back to his mouth.

He’s hyper aware that Spock’s watching him. Spock hasn’t moved to the fruit himself, and Jim revels in the audience. He draws his tongue out of his mouth first and presses against the grape and the tip of his thumb, then drags across the whole top, catching all the chocolate. He laves it off in big, slow sweeps, then curls his tongue back into his mouth and sucks the grape in against his lips, as though he’ll suckle all the juice right out of the skin.

Then his tongue comes back, he takes it inside his mouth, and he bites down so the sugary center will explode across his tongue, mingled with the remains of dark chocolate. It’s delicious, and he drags his tongue out along his bottom lip after, eyes fixed on Spock.

Spock is still sitting rigidly, even as Jim quietly licks a stray trickle of chocolate off his thumb. They both know how good Jim is with his mouth, and he makes a show of it—for all Spock’s Vulcan pride, Jim still knows he has an imagination that’s eagerly filling things in.

Maybe Spock is hesitating to eat with his hands. Or maybe he’s not hungry. Either way, Jim decides he should help. He plucks a large, topless strawberry out of a different bowl and drags it through the fondue just as much as he did the grape. He intends to get every last bit of this fondue in the end, even if he has to lick the bowl clean under Spock’s unwavering gaze.

When the strawberry’s bottom is coated in brown, Jim lifts it out and reaches across the table, his eyes commanding his first officer to lean in and take it.

Spock shifts that fraction forward, and it’s enough for Jim to close the distance, for him to press the tip of the strawberry against Spock’s lips. Spock opens his mouth very slowly, but Jim drags the tip along Spock’s plush bottom lip all the same, leaving a trail of chocolate that one of them’s going to have to lick away. Finally, Jim has mercy and presses the strawberry forward enough for Spock’s teeth to graze it. His eyelids lower and he tilts his head in as he bites the fruit out of Jim’s hand, stained lips brushing Jim’s fingernails.

Jim deliberately lingers while Spock chews, then brings his hand back to his mouth and licks the tiny remnants of chocolate off his index finger. His middle finger he pops into his mouth to suckle clean, and Spock finally brings his hands above the table, reaching for a pile of Vulcan fruit similar to kiwi, at least when it’s sliced like it is, though it’s pink and firmer. He scoops the slice through the bowl, not heaping it with as much chocolate as Jim would, but still more than Jim would expect Spock to willingly consume. But Spock doesn’t bring the fruit to his own mouth.

He holds it across the table for Jim. Jim helpfully leans forward, eyes locked on Spock’s and mouth permanently twisted up, grinning even as he opens. He lips pop over the entirety of the fruit and the ends of Spock’s fingers, and he closes around them and sucks hard. Melted sugar slicks over his taste buds, coupled with the dull bitterness of the fruit and the bland salt of Spock’s fingers. He suckles on them longer then he has to, and he chews on the end of the fruit without taking it out of Spock’s fingers. He gets halfway through the slice, teeth wedged up against Spock’s fingertips, when he bites, before Spock withdraws his hand on his own.

Jim swallows down his mouthful and purrs, “We should do this at home sometime, maybe without the fruit.” Spock stares at him, waiting for more, and Jim leans closer to practically moan, “I’d love to lick chocolate off your ears, drizzle it all down your body and suck it off your stomach and balls.” He doesn’t even have to mention what he’d do to Spock’s dick, because he can sense Spock’s mind filling it in, and they both know how much Jim enjoys having his partner naked. He goes in for another grape, this time bringing it to Spock again. Spock deliberately keeps his mouth closed, making Jim work for it.

Jim eyes are boring holes into Spock’s. Their bond is intensifying, flaring up from that usual, dormant state to the swell of unspoken things that keeps it pulsing in Jim’s mind like a fire. Sometimes it’s just a logical connection, made to whisper words into each other’s head that aren’t for other ears, top-security mission plans or private reassurances. Other times, it’s a burst of emotional compromise that seems to burst with all Spock’s pent up desire and Jim’s insatiable lust. This is one of those times, and the more Jim feeds his boyfriend, the stronger the bond becomes.

Spock feeds him back. Spock brings grapes to his lips. Strawberries. Slices of banana and Tellarite starfruit. Jim makes a show of every one Spock gives him. He sucks and licks and leans in and moans deep in his throat, lips growing wet and swollen from being rubbed and coaxed and pushed against. Spock’s turns are so intense. His entire body seems to zero in on his mouth, pleasuring Jim’s fingers as much as taking in food. The rest of the restaurant seems to melt away, left in the orange darkness while the two of them give each other life.

Jim’s foot starts to move again. He can’t help it. He wants to touch Spock with every part of him. Sometimes he just wants to jump inside Spock’s skin. Wants them to be joined. The bond does that, but right now it’s too fogged with overwhelming lust that Jim can hardly push words through it, and when he does, he’s sure that all Spock receives is an array of Jim’s needy whimpers. The strawberries disappear the quickest, and the last one, Spock pulls out of Jim’s mouth before he can finish, bringing it over to devour the rest himself. Jim doesn’t know why he didn’t think of that, and now he wishes they always did; they should always share their food. He reaches for the last grape, but Spock flares through his mind, _No._

Jim looks up and repeats, confused, “No?”

Spock’s staring at him, long fingers nearly gripping the table edge. _I believe we should make use of the restroom facilities._ The words come through powerful, strong: Jim can feel Spock’s need.

He’ll tease later about the ‘we,’ about going to such a public, inappropriate place, about ridiculous cover-ups. Bones would laugh himself hoarse over this. But Jim would have Spock right over this table if he could, pick the bowl right up and overturn the rest along Spock’s elegant back, lean in to lick chocolate off Spock’s spine while he slammed into Spock’s ass. A nod is the only answer he can manage, and Spock’s gaze drifts over his shoulder; Jim turns around in his seat to spot the three washroom doors against the wall. Hopefully the restaurant can do without one for a while.

Jim gets out of his seat without another word, Spock already following. They’re back in sync, and they practically bolt to the nearest one. The door slides open automatically, the ‘occupied’ light on top automatically switching from off to on. When the door clicks shut behind them, Jim can hear it lock.

The washroom is small. There’s a sink and mirror on their left, a toilet on their right, with a fold out board next to it for children and a metallic rail on the far wall. The floor’s still wood, though the wall is beige tile. It’s not terrible, as far as public washrooms go, but it’s certainly not going to win any beauty awards.

Jim would rather look at Spock, but as soon as he does, Spock slams him into the wall. It’s so fast that Jim doesn’t have time to fight it, and his head swims at the minor bump to his skull, his back protesting. Spock’s crushing him, pinning him in place, and that’s _just what Jim wanted._

He’s been fantasizing about fucking Spock all night, and he’s sure it’s spilled over through their link. But now, Spock is taking charge, one hand squeezing Jim’s hip hard enough to bruise and the other slipping gently around the back of Jim’s head, teasing his hair and holding him still. Jim opens his mouth before Spock’s even close enough to kiss, his own hands lifting to Spock’s sides. He gets his palms halfway up Spock’s back before Spock is pressing their mouths together, face tilting, noses right next to each other, eyes fluttering shut. Spock’s lips are impossibly sweet, wet and warm against his, and Jim traces them with his own, with his tongue and his teeth. He splays his fingers over Spock’s shoulder blades and touches as much of Spock’s body as he can while his tongue slips in to explore Spock’s mouth, even though he already knows every part of it. Spock kisses him back with just as much vigor. The tent in Spock’s pants rubs against Jim’s own, and Jim can feel the outline of Spock’s dick, already filled and hard. Jim’s had a semi for half their date, and now he couldn’t be any stiffer if he tried. He kisses Spock with all he has, even his fantasies losing coherency; he’s engrossed in the moment, this little special bubble that is him and Spock.

Then Spock’s hands are slipping down Jim’s body, dipping along the waistband of his pants. He follows suit, dropping to Spock’s front, and their bodies have to part just enough to get their hands in between, though their mouths stay fixed to one another. Jim doesn’t have to look anyway; he could undo Spock’s pants in his sleep. He pops out the button and downs the zipper, just as Spock’s doing the same to his jeans. While Spock contents himself with running his hands torturously up and down Jim’s thighs, beneath his underwear and pants, Jim tucks into Spock’s boxers and goes straight for his lover’s cock. He holds it in both hands, cupping the base and wrapping around the shaft, and Spock growls into his mouth; a tremor of utter adoration runs through Jim’s body. He gently pulls Spock’s dick out of his pants and pumps it, dry, unable to move his hands away. He tries to thrust his own hips into Spock’s hands, but Spock is being a tease.

Spock’s hands slide between Jim’s legs instead, and he understands. His balls rest against Spock’s arm while Spock’s fingers draw through his crack, the other sliding around from overtop, digging between the cheeks of his ass. Jim breaks the kiss just long enough to mutter, “Left pocket.”

Spock doesn’t say anything, but a garbled sentiment hisses through the bond, something like _my naughty captain._ When Spock just keeps running his fingers through Jim’s crack, Jim forces himself to let go of Spock’s dick and do it himself. His jacket’s pocket is a mess of little things—key cards and wrapped candies from the place they lunched at and old datachips. He finds the little packet of lube and draws it out. He thrusts his hips forward into Spock’s, just to leave space behind him, between his ass and the wall, and he reaches back to deliver the packet to Spock’s fingers. Jim can feel Spock withdrawing it into his palm and crushing it, warming it enough to dissolve the outer layer, to make it ready for its one-time use. Spock doesn’t even ask why Jim brought one with him; Jim likes to be prepared.

Spock uses his resources well, and a second later, Spock’s slick fingertips are rubbing over Jim’s hole, coaxing it open, spreading jelly on it. Jim bites Spock’s bottom lip in lieu of his own, reaching up to cup Spock’s face and pull Spock’s hair. Even after all this time, Jim’s still not clear on whether or not Vulcans kiss like this in private, but either way, Spock’s brilliant at it, trained just to Jim’s liking and the perfect match. Jim could lose himself in Spock’s mouth, could easily give way to nothing but this, but Spock’s pressing into his hole, and his attention’s snapped away. He gasps into Spock’s mouth, and Spock starts to kiss away from him, along the edges of his lips and down to his chin. Spock nips his way up Jim’s jaw, practically purring, and fingers Jim’s hole until it’s loose enough to push one digit inside. Jim’s a trembling mess already.

He clutches at Spock’s shoulder and turns his face to press a fierce kiss to the side of Spock’s head. He opens his mouth and bites at Spock’s neck, scraping teeth and licking and sucking skin, while Spock’s finger slides deeper and deeper into him. By the time it gets to the knuckle, Jim’s desperate and begging, “Just do it, take me—”

Spock says simply, “No,” and continues his fervent kisses. Jim groans but concedes, relaxes himself and takes in Spock’s middle finger alongside the index one. The two of them scissor Jim open, stretching him gently but efficiently. He tides himself over by taking a fistful of Spock’s sleek hair and turning Spock’s head aside, so he can run his tongue up the shell of Spock’s ear. At the tip, he nibbles and sucks, imagining it drenched in chocolate. These ears are one of Jim’s favourite features on Spock, though really, he adores everything. Every time they go to a new planet where Spock has to wear a toque or some other stupid hat or headband and cover them up, it makes Jim feel all the more like these are some forbidden, too-enticing part of Spock’s body meant for Jim alone. The more he licks them, the harder Spock fingers him, until Jim is wantonly thrusting his hips back onto Spock’s hand, sure he’s going to come even without Spock stroking his prostate. Spock is simply spreading him, but it’s still _so good_. Any part of Spock inside him is.

Spock finally withdraws his hand, breathes, “T’hy’la—” and Jim doesn’t have to be told. He jumps with Academy-perfected skill, hooking his legs around Spock’s waist, and Spock catches him by the ass and slams him harder against the wall. There’s no room for Jim to slip. Spock practically rips Jim’s pants down his thighs, and Jim clutches to Spock’s shoulders, unable to contain himself. Spock’s looking down, holding himself and arching his body to press his cock against Jim’s open, dripping hole. Jim sucks in a breath, waiting. 

The head of Spock’s dick presses against him, and he bites into Spock’s ear, and Spock stabs up into him. Jim has to let go of Spock’s ear to ensure he won’t draw blood, and instead he burrows his face in the side of Spock’s, lost in a strangled cry. The walls in this washroom better be soundproof. Spock starts to piston into him, a little bit at a time, always careful, even though Jim’s _so sure_ his body was built for Spock’s and they’ll always fit. He clutches at Spock’s shoulders, shaking, until Spock’s all the way inside him, jammed up his hot channel, and Spock starts fidgeting, making little thrusts at different angles, until Jim tosses his head back against the wall and _screams._ Right there. Spock takes note, slips half out, and slams inside, right against that bundle of nerves that makes Jim explode. From there on out, every thrust is a tidal wave that takes Jim by storm, grinding him fiercely into the wall and feeding him an overload of pleasure.

And then Spock tilts his head, catching one of Jim’s hands sliding over his cheek, and he nips at Jim’s thumb, dragging Jim over by the teeth until Spock can suck Jim’s fingers into his mouth. Jim’s dizzy. He feeds Spock his fingers and wishes he could suck Spock’s in return, but Spock is busy holding Jim’s ass, keeping him up. And Jim wouldn’t dare change that. Spock licks and suckles on his skin and slams into him at the same time, their bond brisling with such adoration that it’s a wonder Jim can think at all. His body’s hotter than the fire on their table. Every time Spock wedges up inside him, thick and long and _perfect_ , Jim squeezes around his boyfriend’s cock, clenching and wanting to hold on. He feels best when Spock’s inside him, or when he’s inside Spock: they’re finally complete. Spock only finishes with Jim’s left hand when he’s ready to take on Jim’s right, and Jim feeds it to him the same way, staring through the haze of being brutally fucked into a public bathroom wall. 

Neither of them touches Jim’s cock. Spock’s hands are busy and Jim doesn’t dare; he’ll come too soon. His cock’s trapped between their stomachs, rubbing and catching along the thick knit of Spock’s sweater and the soft fabric of Jim’s shirt, rock hard and pulsing. Spock feels _so good_ , just like he always does, he fucks Jim _so good_ , just what Jim wanted, and Jim rides out every thrust with a cry and a moan and a rush of emotions _begging_ for more, ass clenching down to draw out Spock’s pleasure; he can feel every little millimeter of Spock’s impressive dick and he just wants to hold it inside himself forever, but then Spock lets go of his fingers and slams their mouths back together, and Jim’s so in love he can’t stand it.

He comes between them, shrieking into Spock’s lips, clinging to Spock’s broad shoulders. One of Spock’s hands darts to cup Jim’s cock, catch the release, save their clothes from being ruined. But his hips are still going, still taking Jim over and over, even as Jim’s ass practically convulses around him. Pleasure is wracking Jim’s body with uncontrollable force, and it’s all he can do to hang on, to lose himself again in Spock’s mouth and whine into the bond, _I love you so much, Spock, you’re my everything, you have no idea, I love you so, so much..._

 _You are my world, beloved,_ Spock answers, somehow both so incredibly tender and fierce. But another thrust right against that certain spot in Jim’s body, and Spock loses it; Jim can feel Spock coming undone in his hands. Spock’s control shivers, breaks, and for a moment, he’s slumping against Jim, only their weight holding him up. Jim can feel his ass filling with Spock’s release, and Spock stays buried to the hilt, now slowly grinding, to hold everything deep inside. Jim takes it, even as he’s finishing his orgasm. The only thing in the universe comparable to being filled with Spock’s seed is filling Spock with his own, and both make him sway in awe.

Finally, they’re both still. Panting and breathing hard, Spock still inside and Jim a mess. His knees are getting weak. He can’t hold on anymore, so he slowly drops one leg, and Spock, still holding on to him, helps him down. Standing back against the wall, Jim realizes for the first time how cold the tile is—he was so lost in Spock’s fire that he barely noticed.

Spock’s the one collapsing. He slips down the floor to his knees, and he opens his kiss-swollen lips to run along Jim’s shaft, licking off all the stray cum. Jim’s cock is flagging, but it twitches happily at the attention, unable to quite deflate while Spock’s mouth is on it. Spock laves up and down and around the sides until he’s licked everything away, and then he gives the head a good suck and starts on his own hand.

Jim stares through heavy lids and bleary eyes, convinced he’s the luckiest man in the entire universe and every other universe there is. When Spock finally finishes, he drops his hands to his lap.

He nuzzles his face into Jim’s hip and breathes, “Happy birthday, Jim.”

“Thanks, Spock.” He’s too breathless to manage anything better.

He lightly tugs Spock up by the hair. Spock stumbles to his feet, already reaching to tuck himself back in and fix his pants, and he helps Jim do the same.

He slips his fingers into Jim’s, and Jim encloses them together, holding tight. “What do you say; time to head home?” The stars are out, but the night’s still young. Spock has that look on his face that says he would follow Jim anywhere.

So Jim heads for the bathroom door, trailing his lover behind him and ready to get the rest of their chocolate to go.


End file.
